


Uncrowned Kings

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, COVID, M/M, Sickfic, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25107634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 86
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

He was bored. Utterly bored. BORED.

There had been no good cases for an entire week.

Lestrade had stopped responding to his texts three days ago.

John was being annoying and busy at work and there was a restless itch in his mind that he couldn’t soothe. Deep down he knew exactly what was causing it of course, (after all he WAS a genius!), but the rest of his brain didn’t want to acknowledge it.

Because it may have had something to do with feelings. Ugh.

So he just grew more and more cranky and frustrated till eventually John called him and almost yelled at him to _stop texting and go get some fresh air and terrorize someone else for a change_.

So he was now lounging on the sofa since he had run out of experiments.

Molly had given him a clubfoot which he had dissected with glee yesterday and also put it inside John’s shoes and used it to make footprint as a sample.

He steepled his fingers and thought. _John needed to cultivate a scientific temper rather than a regular one._ (Which was pretty well developed he had to say.) _Honestly._

_He was quite lacking in curiosity given his medical background and his current job as blogger to the world’s only Consulting Detective._

_Clubfoot made for such distinct shoeprints._ _Mycroft would have appreciated the results._

_._

_._

He had spent a good hour this afternoon wondering what it would be like to be a swashbuckling pirate, sailing the high seas. No rules, no caution. Just adventure! Swordfights!

He would be a good pirate and catch the bad ones. Maybe Lestrade would also have a ship and he would ask him to make the arrests. But then Mycroft had turned up on his ship and advised him to eat a satsuma to prevent scurvy. Then he had threatened to make him walk the plank.

_Grow up_ he had said _or you will stay with the lost boys and never be able to return_.

_He was SO annoying…._ Sherlock thought with a scowl.

So he had then tried to plot Mycroft’s murder. Poisoning was out. BORRIIING. 

Stabbing, strangling, gunshot wouldn’t work. In as much as it would work to MURDER him, obviously. But not without being DETECTED. Also Anthea spent far too much time being far too close to him to allow any direct personal attacks.

He frowned as he thought of that.

Poisonous gas maybe? An escaped snake that just happened to find its way to his room? A speckled band. An ideal locked room mystery!

_But what would be the fun in that murder? Who would he gloat about it to?_

John would probably call Lestrade himself and have him arrested. Lestrade would arrest him too.

He frowned even more deeply. And then who would admire his genius way of committing the crime?

_Who would understand the darkness that would smile deep inside him and would bubble away like a tiny evil cauldron in his reptile brain?_

Only Mycroft would.

_Well done brother mine_ he would say with a thin cool smile. Then he would probably flick away some imaginary speck of dust from one of his fine wool suits and straighten his already ridiculously perfectly aligned tie. Maybe fiddle with his cufflinks as he lay there dying.

He was being so TEDIOUS even _inside_ his head now. Ugh.

_Why did he have to be away on some idiotic and pointless assignment for two entire weeks for heaven’s sake?!_ _Didn’t the British Government have anyone else who could do the legwork?_

_How bad could the crisis be that they needed someone like MYCROFT to go?!_

He wondered fleetingly if that also meant it had been a more dangerous assignment and stopped his mind before it went down that rabbit hole. The little whispers of _Mycroft may be in danger_.

_Could be dangerous_.

_Aaargh. STOP it_! He commanded his brain. _Stop it NOW_.

Everything was so ANNOYING. And everyone was so TEDIOUS.

Just then Mrs. Hudson had come in with his tea and made so much NOISE and tried to CHAT for heaven’s sake.

He just got up abruptly, halfway through her sentence and wore his coat and scarf and strode out.

.

.

He snarled at passers-by for existing and for also being so IDIOTIC _._

_Chattering and smiling and BEING HAPPY. What kind of new nonsense was this??_

_Why wasn’t there any intelligent CRIME anymore?_

London called itself a Megapolis. Bursting at the seams with people of all kinds. Immigrants-both legal and illegal and so many locals, all of them up to NO GOOD, with all their mundane obsessions with love, money, drugs, power.

_Why wasn’t anyone doing anything about it?!_

Lestrade had made him sit through Hunger Games last weekend at his place when John had his girlfriend over at Baker Street. He would never confess it openly to Lestrade but he had really enjoyed it. He thought the Capitol had had a good idea with the Games and he would definitely like to do the same himself. But with criminals only.

Like the lions in Roman times.

He saw himself as the Emperor at the Colosseum, ordering the gates to be opened so that the murderers could be torn to bits by the lions.

Then Mycroft came in, wearing a toga with sleeve garters of all the idiotic things, and said utterly tedious things about ‘due process’ and the ‘mills of God grind slow but grind fine.’

Whatever that meant.

_Ugh._

Sherlock walked angrily past the Thames and saw the statue of Boudicca.

_She would have given Mycroft a good fight_ he thought. He wondered whether Mycroft still needed to use the fighting skills he had doubtless learnt during his training with MI6.

He was now walking without any coherent plan. A kind of ‘stream- of- consciousness’ led by his feet. But of course his sub-conscious mind knew more than his conscious self and eventually he found himself standing right in front of Mycroft’s house.

Oh.

Okay…..

He stood there for a few seconds, hands in his pockets, wondering what he should do now.

Then he broke in using his lock picks (because heaven forbid he ever ring the bell and enter like an ordinary person.)

He stepped in and crossed the hallway to find Anthea standing there holding her service revolver pointed at him.


	2. Chapter 2

Anthea showed a flicker of recognition when she saw him but didn’t exactly lower the gun. 

Sherlock scowled ferociously even as a small part of him was grateful that Mycroft had someone like her watching his back.

 _Like he watches mine_ came the next thought. _Oh for goodness’ sake….. SO TEDIOUS._

“What are YOU doing here?” he asked her in irritation and barely hidden consternation. “Is he back?”

“It’s been four days.” She said, still holding the gun steady.

He was about to open his mouth in protest at not being told when she continued, “He is unwell. Hasn’t been to work since he got back.”

_WHAT?!_

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time in twenty tears that he had heard of Mycroft taking a single sick day.

“What?! Why….But ….How....” He asked, not very coherently.

He suddenly remembered his thought experiments that afternoon and asked her in alarm “Has he been poisoned?”

Anthea raised her eyebrows at that. He may have caught a gleam of amusement in her eyes that suggested _Conspiracy theory? Really?_

“He is in the bedroom. Sleeping right now.” She said.

_Clearly she wasn’t going to answer him directly._

Sherlock thrummed with impatience and started to move towards the staircase that led to the bedroom. Anthea stepped towards him and stopped him with just a look. She looked at him steadily, still holding her gun. Wordlessly indicating that she would probably go ahead and shoot him anyway if he even considered disturbing Mycroft while he was asleep.

Sherlock returned her glare with an equally fierce one of his own but stayed where he was.

 _Talk about being dramatic. Did Mycroft have this effect on everyone around him? Mycroft was just SLEEPING. It’s not like he needed PRIVACY to do that…_ and he rolled his eyes to himself…when _s_ uddenly his stomach dropped.

“Is …is there someone with him in the bedroom?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

He suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. In fact he was quite sure he did NOT want to know the answer!!

But Anthea just raised one eyebrow again in an amused way and his stomach settled down. 

Her expressions reminded him so much of Mycroft’s reactions that he felt a frisson of panic again.

_Good LORD……were Anthea and Mycroft…….was Mycroft ….did he and Anthea…were they…how close were they anyway?!! What was she doing here like she belonged and HE was the intruder….( well he WAS but he was his BROTHER where as Anthea was….what was she anyway?! Clearly not just an assistant given the freedom she had to hang around here while Mycroft was not only back in London SECRETLY but also ASLEEP!! )_

He wiped his upper lip where a fine sheen of sweat had broken out at the thought. He dared not ask her directly though. So he just paced up and down in the hall till Anthea really wanted to hold him at gunpoint again and truss him up.

Eventually he flopped down on the single seater sofa, all petulant and sulky body language with a truly impressive pout that may have been adorable on a five year old but just made Anthea want to shake him right now.

She sat down across from him, where she had a clear view of the front door, and her phone sat in her lap and her gun still in her hand

.

.

Finally after an hour of mutual silent torment where Sherlock glared at her and she ignored him but made it very clear that she would take a nanosecond to point the gun back at him if he as much as moved, she heard her phone chirp with a message.

_It had to be Mycroft. Mycroft was awake!_

Sherlock was out of his chair like a bullet but she put out her hand and stopped him in his tracks.

“Take him his soup and toast.”

Sherlock looked at her as though she had asked him to take out the rubbish with his bare hands. No cancel that actually. He would probably do that happily if he was looking for a hidden clue or a murder weapon.

 _Did she think he was Mrs. Hudson, taking trays of food?!_ He was not his brother’s housekeeper.

He almost rolled his eyes and wanted to smack her hand out of the way and run up the stairs.

 _But Mycroft was unwell she had said…._ …..so he took a deep breath and nodded and followed her into the kitchen. Of course she had kept the tray ready. He watched as she heated the soup in the microwave and made a fresh toast and buttered it.

Sherlock took the tray upstairs, as carefully as if he was carrying his lab equipment or a tray full of organs from Bart’s.

_Easy does it._

_._

_._

Mycroft was reclined in bed, which was good, since the sight of the tray bearer startled him so much that his knees may have given way if he had been standing.

“What are you doing here?!” he asked Sherlock in utter astonishment, his eyes wide with shock.

Sherlock was also startled at the sight of Mycroft looking so tired and unwell and…..so vulnerable.

His Mycroft. His shield from the noises in his head. His cave from the chaos of the outside world. His rock against the oncoming storm.

Looking so fragile…… and so…..human.

Sherlock managed, with great effort, to supress the rising tide of panic and distress and just shrugged nonchalantly, as if to say _meh- whatever- was- just- passing- by- No- big- deal._

Inside his Mind Palace there was some flailing and screaming going on about what would happen to him if Mycroft ever….if anything ever happened to Mycroft….Ok there was a LOT of screaming going on inside his Mind Palace. He would get destroyed like a hermit crab without its shell if he had to ever face the world without Mycroft in it. In a split second he imagined a world where he was alone…without him….. and it was a bleak barren terrain like the dusty sea on the moon. Howling winds and desolate nights.

_Yeah. No. He would not last even one day. Or a night._

.

.

Sherlock kept his face grim and cold but when he saw Mycroft struggle to get more upright in bed, he kept the tray on the bedside table and swiftly came to help him. He put a pillow behind him and smoothed out the duvet. He was deliberately not looking at Mycroft’s face. He moved away to get the tray.

Mycroft was silent. Waiting.

.

.

Sherlock brought the tray-table over and placed it to stand over his brother’s outstretched legs on the bed.

As he watched Mycroft take the spoon delicately he had a sudden desire to want to feed him.

“Should I feed you?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

 _Where had that come from_?! He chided himself mentally.

“Thanks!” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrow.

 _Just like Anthea did_. _Damn, how close were these two anyway?!_ Sherlock scowled at that thought.

Mycroft saw his scowl and smiled at him. “But I can manage.”

.

.

Sherlock sat there watching him with a piercing glare which would have led the hardiest killer to breakdown and confess to all the murders committed and half a dozen more they had not even committed.

But of course Mycroft was made of sterner stuff and was in fact amused by this display.

He was still waiting patiently as he kept drinking the soup spoon by delicious hot spoon.

It was coming.

Any minute now.

And there it was.

“Mycie!!” Sherlock hissed suddenly. The name he used to call him as a child. The name he only called him by as an adult when he was particularly vulnerable. Or needy.

Sherlock then seemed incapable of saying anything further and just flapped his hand in the general direction to indicate the whole _you are sick and in bed_ thing.

“It’s just a viral illness Sherlock.” Mycroft told him.

He didn’t tell him he had had a platelet transfusion two days ago or that he was still feeling tired to his bones. “I had to visit Wuhan last month and most of us from the delegation are unwell. Probably something we ate. _Eye Of Newt, and Toe Of Frog, Wool Of Bat, and Tongue Of Dog.”_

“ _Adder's Fork, and Blind Worm's Sting, Lizard's Leg and Owlet's Wing. For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble._ " Sherlock continued automatically. He knew his Macbeth well too.

Mycroft smiled fondly but Sherlock was looking more angry than relieved. “And you didn’t let me know.”

Flat. A statement. Not accusatory, though the emotion was clearly simmering below the surface. Threatening to erupt anytime now.

“I was being looked after Lock.” Reverting easily to childhood names, to soothe him.

The unsaid ‘and _you are not exactly a caregiver’_ hung between them.

“Why is Anthea here?” Sherlock demanded, changing tack.

“It was a difficult mission brother mine and I have been working from home for the last two days.”

Sherlock scoffed. “So you had two ENTIRE days to recover from a serious viral illness. Amazing. And you accuse me of not taking care of myself. Couldn’t Anthea manage even that much?”

“It’s not about her managing. You know that.” Mycroft said calmly, knowing what was really bothering him but waiting for him to figure it out.

It took the patience of a saint to know people before they understood themselves and then stand by and wait for them to catch up. But Mycroft had had a lifetime of experience.

“I……”Sherlock started to say. Then he closed his mouth and pursed his lips, as though wanting to prevent any further words from escaping. ‘You…..’ he tried again and stopped.

Mycroft waited.

Sherlock moved the tray with the now empty plates away from the bed. He came back and sat on the edge of the bed.

He looked at Mycroft.

Mycroft waited some more.

Sherlock just glared at him, unable to speak.

When an immovable object meets the patience of a saint it is not hard to figure out why the saint is a saint. Sherlock’s innate stubbornness and refusal or acknowledge or accept any emotions made it impossible for the younger man to articulate what he wanted to say.

So Mycroft put him out of his misery.

“I missed you too.” he said softly and with a sound like a sob Sherlock practically flung himself onto him.

“Don’t ever do this to me again Mycie. I can’t do this without you.”

“Hush silly.” Mycroft said, petting him. “It’s just a viral illness. I will be back at work day after tomorrow.” He said, comforting the man he loved more than anyone else in the world. He couldn’t deny being slightly pleased at this unexpected and unusual display of affection. _I must be more ill than I thought_.

He stroked the younger man’s back till he calmed down. And then in a moment of weakness he asked. “Stay?”

 _Yes_ nodded Sherlock against his chest.

“Ok.” Mycroft said, again oddly delighted at this affirmation. “You should let John know.”

Sherlock texted John and Mycroft texted Anthea.

John saw the message and his eyebrows shot up. He wondered what the collateral damage was going to be but he couldn’t deny feeling just a bit happy at having the flat to himself and some peace and quiet too. Sherlock had been bored and driving him out of his skull this past week.

Anthea saw the text and smiled to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thrilled that some of you are excited by this new story :) 
> 
> The next chapter may take a while though cos lots of work this week!! The outline is ready just the filling needs time and some effort :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Anthea 'bond'

Mycroft was still tired and needed to sleep so Sherlock had left him alone and kept himself busy reading some books in the library till it was 4 pm. Then he went to the kitchen to make tea for his brother (before Anthea could MAKE him do it).

Just then Anthea did come into the kitchen anyway and started opening cupboards to take out some biscuits and other snacks. He looked at her, moving around the kitchen in a familiar way and was forced to stop what he was doing.

He glowered at her.

He was beginning to realize that somewhere deep inside he was (maybe….) a tiny bit jealous of her.

Mycroft spent more time with her than with anyone else. Mycroft must have taught her too and mentored her also and she was probably many leagues ahead of him because it was so many years since he had had the benefit of learning from his brother.

He remembered all those wonderful long days in the library among books and perfect evenings in the gardens with the entire sky all to themselves. When he had Mycroft all to himself. Entirely.

Not the way he now had to share him with the whole damn world and the Queen….. and apparently Anthea.

His scowl deepened.

Those perfect days had ended when Mycroft had left for university. _Abandoned him_. Left him behind. He could still feel that sad tug in his heart when he thought of the 10 year old boy crying and refusing to come out of the bedroom to say goodbye to his older brother.

He had missed him like an ache for years and he rubbed his chest absently as he stood there, trying to comfort that small boy who still lived inside and who still felt lonely and who was still hurting.

.

.

“Sherlock.” Anthea said, breaking through his ruminations.

He came to with a start and realized that this was probably the first time in their entire acquaintance that she had ever called him by his name.

“Alone protects us because heartbreak can be distracting.” She said calmly. “Distraction can be a matter of life and death in a job like ours. For Queen and Country.” She paused to confirm that he was paying attention. “And also personally.” She added.

“Why are you telling me this?” Sherlock snarled at her. “You think I haven’t heard him say it a thousand times over the years?!”

“You hear but you do not understand.” Anthea said. “I have also learnt from the best. I can observe things about you that even you don’t know yet.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was curious to hear her talking to him the way he always spoke to John. _What was she going on about?_

“Don’t hurt him.” She said. “It really _isn’t_ better to have loved and lost.”

Then she handed him a tray and went back to the lookout/office space that she had created in the living room, with a direct view of the door as well as the staircase leading to the bedroom.

Sherlock stood there staring at her retreating back, his brain thinking at the speed of light.  
 _What the hell had she meant by that???_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a super short chapter but it seemed like a natural break here. To make up for it I am posting one more chapter right away :)


	4. Chapter 4

That night Sherlock planned on staying awake but he was too restless to do it sitting down. After watching him pace for an entire hour Anthea finally stopped him and told him to try and at least lie down. She assured him she would wake him if anything was needed.

After some requisite glaring and scowling he agreed and went upstairs.

When Anthea went up after an hour to check on Mycroft she might have actually been tempted to smile after a very long time.

Sherlock was curled up in a ball with his hands tucked under his chin, right outside the door of Mycroft’s bedroom, looking for all the world like a runaway child, unable to leave for real but unwilling to return home.

She shook her head at the sight and went back to her guard post, wondering if this was going to go the way she had always hoped for.

.

.

The next day was fairly uneventful and Mycroft spent the entire day in bed while Sherlock kept himself busy feeding him and looking after him.

When Sherlock had closed the door behind him after taking away the lunch tray Mycroft stared at the door thoughtfully and in wonder. He smiled wryly to himself. _If falling ill was what was going to finally bring his beloved Sherlock back to him he would have gladly done it all those years ago._

He remembered that curly haired boy weeping in anger on the day he left for college. The day when something broke between them and all the King’s horses and all the King’s men that Mycroft had at his disposal simply could not put together again.

He knew those drug days were a cry for attention. He knew that all that rule breaking was to push Mycroft to anger. To force his hand. To cause some kind of confrontation.

But Mycroft was so much ahead of the game as always.

He knew that it would end badly if Sherlock was bereft of this one solid wall that he slammed himself against repeatedly. He knew how difficult it had always been for Sherlock to control his passion and anger and if he took himself away from being a target, he feared for the rest of the world!

He had already failed so badly with Eurus but that one moment when Sherlock had pointed the gun at himself had shattered any illusions he had ever had of being able to take his feelings with him to the grave. If Sherlock had pulled that trigger, Mycroft knew that he would have picked up that gun and the next bullet would have entered his own heart.

There was no world he wanted to live in that didn’t have Sherlock in it.

_But how could he continue to live in this same world that had Sherlock in it and hide his feelings forever?!_

_As always….to be or not to be…….that was the question._

.

.

Anthea had mobilized some new medical devices that day, wisely in duplicate of course, so Sherlock spent a few happy hours dismantling pulse oximeters and oxygen concentrators as well as measured his own blood pressure and temperature in different ways.

Before and after running up the stairs, before and after sitting upside down on the sofa, before and after a hot shower, before tea and after tea.

Anthea wished she had ordered a strait jacket also.

.

.

In the evening Anthea was working on some complicated encrypted document when Sherlock brought her a cup of coffee. She looked up and gave a wry smile.

“So you can teach an old dog new tricks.” she said. “Never took you to be the caregiver type.”

“I am not a doctor but he doesn’t seem to be getting better as fast as he should. Is he going to be ok?” Sherlock asked in reply, ignoring her remarks altogether.

“The information is too scanty and with so many uncertainties. We do have the best experts looking into it.”

“Not good enough!” he declared and pulled open a laptop. “Send me all the information you have.”

So they spent the rest of the day reviewing the problem. By then end of it Sherlock was pulling his hair in frustration.

“How can every piece of information contradict the other?!! Is it viral or not? Is it airborne or not?? Is it also spread by contact?! Does it affect the lungs? Or the blood vessels?! Is it more likely to cause bleeding or clotting? Does it come from contact with animals? Or by consumption of them? How can it mimic dengue and the flu and also have people who have no symptoms at all?”

“Well.” Anthea said as calmly as she could. “We had to keep it all hush hush and work on the treatment protocols without raising too much suspicion. The delegation had gone for a diplomatic visit after all and the relationship with China is already strained due to the Hong Kong protests for democracy and our support for Taiwan. Not to mention the Falun Gong supporters asking to Free Tibet. We could hardly let the news out that these delegates had fallen ill. We tested him for poison of course and the blood sample is being subjected to everything they can look for. Trouble is they don’t know exactly what to look for!”

Sherlock had opened up a page and was looking for flights to Wuhan.

_Maybe he needed to go there and look for clues?_

Anthea saw him do that. “Some of the others from the visiting delegation had some blood issues so Mr. Holmes was given platelets as a precaution. But then yesterday one of the others started showing a drop in oxygen levels without any sign of breathlessness. So we have got in the oxygen today.” She shrugged. “We have the best doctors taking care of him and I don’t think your going there is the right thing to do now. You should be here. With him.”

So they continued to do their research and sift the fake news from the confusing facts.

But a couple of hours later when he saw Anthea’s face as she came out of Mycroft’s bedroom, he knew they were running out of time. Mycroft was feeling rather more ill today and the oxygen saturation was dropping. So they set up the oxygen concentrator and had him sleep on his side.

Despite his obviously worsening condition he gave Sherlock a weak smile and told him to get some rest and not worry.

Sherlock wanted to scream in frustration.

He had always taken Mycroft for granted. If something like this had been happening to him he would expect Mycroft to be there for him. To support him. To be in charge. To offer him assurances that he was going to handle it and that everything would be fine.

And everything would be fine.

Because Mycroft would handle it and make sure it was.

Sherlock thought back on all these years upon years of being under Mycroft’s protection. Whether it was a drug overdose or a royal pardon. Whether it was being his shield against Mummy or Moriarty. Despite all the times that he had let Mycroft down, Mycroft had never once left him adrift. He had kidnapped John almost within an hour of Sherlock meeting him. He had worked on 13 alternatives to save him from the Fall. And he had risked his own life to come and rescue him in Serbia.

He remembered the way Mycroft’s face had twisted in pain when he saw the marks left on Sherlock’s back by the whipping in that prison. Sherlock had actually thought he was going to cry and he had panicked. That would be worse to look at than anything else he had suffered for those two years! So he had asked Mycroft about John and made a fuss over getting his coat back.

Anything to get rid of that terrible expression on Mycroft’s face.

And then he had gone and let him down again by killing Magnussen.

.

.

As he thought of that day, a clear memory came to him of a moment he had swept past in his hurry to get going from their parents’ cottage.

The moment when they had both been smoking outside and Mycroft had said to him “Your loss would break my heart.”

Sherlock stood still right where he was when he remembered that and stopped all the other white noise inside his head. He paused all the deductions of the clues for the illness, the terror at his sudden awareness of Mycroft’s mortality, the panic at what life would mean for him after that, the anger that this had happened.

He stopped it all.

He put a spotlight on that memory and let it unfurl and quietly emerge. He viewed it from all angles. He rewound it and watched it a sixth time and finally allowed himself to understand what it meant. What the words meant.

He calculated the time they were said and realized that with a shock that Mycroft had known what he was going to do!!!

That he had mistakenly dismissed those words as the result of the drug but now it was obvious from the speed with which Mycroft had reached him in the helicopters that he had never been drugged at all!!! That he had KNOWN what Sherlock was going to do!!! He had KNOWN that Sherlock was going to betray him and steal his laptop.

Despite that he had come to rescue him and then tried to get him a pardon.

He blinked. _What had Mycroft said to him in the plane ?_

“I will _always_ be there for you Sherlock.”

He focussed on Mycroft’s face in his memory. It looked…..so weary…so tragic…..so despairing….and he, Sherlock, had put that on his face.

“I will _always_ be there for you Sherlock.”

.

.

_What did those words mean?! What did all these words mean?!!_

He clutched at his head in frustration.

_This was Mycroft. Would his words mean exactly what the words meant?!_

_Or would there some clever and wicked Mycroftian twist to it?!_

  
As much as wanted to doubt them, the words could possibly mean only what those words actually meant…...wasn’t it?

But…but then what was Mycroft trying to tell him?

He was racing through so many many memories now. All the old and new memories. The triple tap of Mycroft’s footsteps and his umbrella on the stairs at 221 B. The sense of frustration he would feel at every encounter. Yet the emptiness he felt every single time Mycroft left.

The day he had called Mycroft from John’s wedding and the thought that he may have been out of breath because he was with someone else…..He remembered the hollow in the pit of his stomach at the recollection.

In a daze he stood there and remembered the day he and John had broken into Mycroft’s home and his movie room. He freeze- framed that moment.

Mycroft Holmes. The Most Dangerous Man in Britain. Was watching home videos.

Of him and his baby brother.

Whose loss would break his heart.

.

.

As he was trying to make sense of it all, his Mind Palace whizzed ahead to Sherringford.

Sherringford.

In the midst of all the havoc and madness and panic and devastation that took place there, he realized that there was only one memory which stood out.

The only thing that really mattered.

The way Mycroft had started to unbutton his shirt to allow Sherlock a better shot at his heart and the strange thought that had flashed in Sherlock’s Mind Palace at the sight.

That he would rather die than live in a world without Mycroft in it.

Sherlock’s blood ran cold in his veins as he realized what all of this meant. What Anthea had meant that day.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, is the truth._

_._

_._   
  


Just as he was lost in these ruminations, Anthea came down the passage looking grim. He followed her to the living room and listened in dreadful silence to the breaking news on BBC. 

There was a possibility of a global pandemic with its origins in Wuhan.


	5. Chapter 5

The next two hours went past in a flurry of phone calls and terse conversations.

John had called Sherlock to check in on him and told him not to leave Mycroft’s house since he was likely to have been exposed, but to keep him updated.

Two doctors dressed in what looked like hazmat suits came for a house visit. They collected blood and put a mask on Mycroft to give him oxygen. Mycroft lay there as they poked and prodded and sorted him out. At one point he feebly asked Sherlock once again to please go away because it was probably contagious.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but stayed near the door of the room, wearing a mask at the insistence of the attending doctors.

As soon as the others had left, he went in and sat next to Mycroft.

“Please Sherlock.” Mycroft said in a slightly breathless voice, sounding muffled through the oxygen mask. “We don’t know what this illness is. I would never forgive myself if you fell ill because of me. Please don’t come near me till we know.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft and saw his genuine worry and pain and wondered how he had managed to miss the sheer force of the love this man showered on him endlessly.

_How had he missed the emotions even when he heard the words?! How had he been blind to the meaning of his deeds? How had he not recognized that the surveillance and paranoia had always been more about his safety than control?_

_How had he been deaf to his own heart telling him what he really felt?! Why he missed him, why he fought with him, why there was a constant push and pull between them?_

Sherlock remembered that whenever he was safe enough to sleep during the years he was away after the Fall, he would always dream of Mycroft. And Dream Mycroft would always soothe him and comfort him and assure him that all was going to be well. There was one occasion when he remembered he could almost feel Mycroft’s hand on his forehead.

In that instant he knew with utter clarity that it HAD been Mycroft’s hand on his forehead!!

“You came to me didn’t you?!” He asked Mycroft sharply.

Mycroft looked at him, confused.

“Croatia.” Sherlock said.

Mycroft just closed his eyes. He was too tired for this. He couldn’t control the expression in his eyes the way he usually could. He was going to give it all away.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft lying there looking pale, and ill and almost grey around the lips and he thought he had never looked more beautiful.

This was the man he was in love with.

The man he had probably always been in love with.

“You risked your life for me. More than once.” Sherlock said slowly, pulling his own mask down. “You idiot.”

Mycroft flushed. He opened his eyes but looked away.

Sherlock held his chin and forced him to look at him.

“You absolute idiot. Would my life have been worth living even for one second without you in it?”

Mycroft blinked and before he realized what was happening Sherlock had leaned in and pulled his mask off and kissed him on the lips.

“You idiot.” he whispered. “My idiot.”

Mycroft pulled away, shocked and horrified. “Sherlock what have you done!!?”

.

.

Sherlock smiled triumphantly, licking his lips. “What lovers have done since time immemorial. Made sure that either we live together or we die together! We have been doing the ‘for better or for worse’ for too long already. Now I am doing the ‘in sickness and health’. And maybe the ‘Till death do us part’ bit.”

He grinned and leaned in for another kiss.

_He could get addicted to this_ , he thought. _To Mycroft’s lips. To that tingly feeling at the touch of their lips. To the calm warmth spreading through his very being. To the sense of having arrived where he was always meant to be._

“Actually….” Sherlock said as he pulled away. “Forget the death do us part. I will totally haunt you if I die and you live and you find yourself another goldfish. So you better get well soon. We have a lot of happily- ever- after to get to after wasting all these years.”

Mycroft was still looking horrified and shocked and looked beyond Sherlock to Anthea who had turned up in time to see that last kiss and to hear what Sherlock said.

“Anthea please stop him. Make him see sense.” Mycroft pleaded.

Anthea smiled at him. “Mr. Holmes…It seems to me as though he _has_ seen sense. Finally.”


	6. Chapter 6

Despite Mycroft’s pleading Sherlock refused to leave the room that night. He did agree to sit on a chair instead of on the bed. He held Mycroft hand, and with his other hand gently wiped away a tear rolling down his cheek.

“Hush dearest.” Sherlock said. “Everything is going to be fine. It is my turn to take care of you.”

He took their clasped hands and put them on Mycroft’s heart. “Don’t fight this Mycie. Fight your illness. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone. Alone will not protect me this time.”

Mycroft trembled at the implications but nodded weakly and drifted off to sleep.

.

.

It was just after midnight that Anthea shook Sherlock awake.

“This just came from our agent in China. Not sure if it was Mandarin in English or a code but he gave up his life to make sure this gets to us.”

S O Y D I ED I S M U M

_What did it mean?! Was it a bad translation of Mandarin? Was it English? What kind of code was it?_

_Maybe a conspiracy to kill the Queen?? Was it going to kill all mums who ate soy?_

Sherlock stared at the message as though he could force it to give up its secret by the intensity of his glare. He tried to translate it into Mandarin, wrote it in Hanzi to see if maybe that gave any clues. He back translated. He tried Cantonese. He used every decryption formula he knew. Nothing.

Then he went back to his document and with infinite patience translated and drew the words in every one of the 302 dialects. Including Nushu, the secret language of women in Jiyangnong.

Nothing.

Finally eight hours after she woke him up Anthea insisted that he should sleep.

As he drifted off he saw the letters float in front of his eyes and dance. The letters formed a long snake and he dreamt of it biting its own tail. He watched as the dream snake swallowed itself entirely and became smaller and smaller till it disappeared in a puff of smoke.

When he woke up with a start he had this feeling of being close to an answer.

So close to an answer that he could almost touch it.

So much on the tip of his tongue that he could almost taste it.

But to his fury, the actual final answer seemed just outside his grasp.

.

.

Meanwhile, the doctors had arrived for a house visit, dressed up like astronauts. They collected blood samples and measured Mycroft’s oxygen saturation. Even though their faces were hardly visible under all those masks, Sherlock sensed that the look they exchanged was grim and worrying.

He went in after they had gone and looked down on Mycroft sleeping on the bed. Looking fragile and pale. He didn’t even notice all the comings and goings in his room and Sherlock’s heart sank. He could feel his blood run cold and his heart beat drumming inside his chest.

_No Mycroft! You can’t leave me like this! Not now!! Not when we have just found love. Please Mycroft! Don’t leave me!! Never ever leave me!_

Sherlock took a deep gasping breath and went downstairs.

_No one else was going to be able to help. It had to him._

He had some tea and the biscuits that Anthea had left out for him before she went to the guest room for her four hours of sleep. Then he sat and brooded at his laptop and slowly his dream came back to him. Like Kekule had dreamt the molecular structure of benzene. Those alphabets were running in a circle like a snake swallowing its own tail. Faster and faster, in and out. Backwards and forwards. In an endless loop……

And then suddenly he saw it.

An acronym!! It was as simple as that.

In a surge of excitement he typed out the message.

SOY DIED IS MUM

He ran an anagram formula and checked through the options. None of them made sense….but he kept scrolling and then there it was.

He blinked. He stared at his laptop as though it was itself a snake about to swallow him whole.

_No. That made no sense. How was it possible?!_

His Mind Palace was running through all the possibilities but it concluded that this was impossible.

_It could not be!_

But he clicked on it anyway and as soon as he did his laptop screen flickered and the words grew bigger and flashed at him.

DID YOU MISS ME

DID YOU MISS ME

DID YOU MISS ME

DID YOU MISS ME

DID YOU MISS ME

DID YOU MISS ME

DID YOU MISS ME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Tribute mention for Dr. Li Wenliang who was the whistle blower who first speak out about the possible viral infection.He was 34 when he died from the infection. “All I know is that he spoke the truth,” Wu said, “and said things many people wouldn’t dare to.” https://time.com/5779678/li-wenliang-coronavirus-china-doctor-death/
> 
> 2\. Nushu, the secret language of women in China: https://qz.com/1271372/what-the-worlds-fascination-with-nushu-a-female-only-chinese-script-says-about-cultural-appropriation/
> 
> 3\. Kekule's dream https://www.chemistryworld.com/features/snakes-sausages-and-structural-formulae/9038.article


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock sat there as though hypnotized and didn’t even notice Anthea coming into the room and standing behind him.

The words fell down his screen like a torrent…… DID YOU MISS ME DID YOU MISS ME DID YOU MISS ME DID YOU MISS ME DID YOU MISS ME…..and then suddenly stopped.

Slowly, dramatically, an image downloaded with music playing in the background.

A familiar song. Stayin’ Alive.

The image zoomed in on the planet and then to China, then Beijing and then the Forbidden City. It kept zooming inside further and further until Sherlock finally saw him.

Jim Moriarty. Sitting sideways, one leg tossed over the arm of the throne, eating an apple. He paused and turned his head and looked right at Sherlock.

“Helllloooo Sherlock. Did you miss me?”

“You!” Sherlock said sharply.

“Yes me.” Jim said, with an eyeroll. “Who did you expect?! The Almighty? I was getting so BORED waiting for you to figure it out. You are getting SLOW Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked at the webcam and spoke into it in controlled fury.

“What have you done to Mycroft?”

“Skipping the sweet nothings are we? Well I am fine too darling, thanks for asking!” Jim said with an exaggerated shake of his head. He tossed the apple away behind his shoulder.

“WHAT. HAVE. YOU. DONE. TO. MYCROFT?” Sherlock snarled at the screen.

“Little old ME?! Nothing. Just some bioengineering. Unlocked the potential of a virus….maybe. I like to call it the coronavirus. Do you like my joke? The virus that wears a crown.” Jim laughed, raising his hand in a high five.

Sherlock blinked. _Could this be real?_ He turned around and saw Anthea standing there watching with a grim expression on her face. _Yes. She was watching this too. It was not just a bizarre bad dream he had fallen into._

He turned back to see Jim’s face in real close up.

“You know me. Can’t sit still. I rose from the dead, JUST like you, and decided to travel a little. Just like you again. TWINSIES!!! To see the world you know. They say travel broadens the horizons!” Jim laughed again and sat up and slapped his thighs.

“Found myself a cozy place in the Forbidden City. But there was no one like YOU to play with over here. BORRRING!!! So I helped create a bunch of viruses. SO MANY viruses. The best murder weapons on the planet. Thought THAT would get your attention. But you missed the patterns Sherly cos you weren’t LOOKING.” Jim frowned and shook his head.

Sherlock stared at Moriarty as he lolled again on the throne and counted off on his fingers.

“Plague in Madagascar, Zika in Brazil, Oropuche in Peru, Nipah in India. Even tried Measles on kids in Lebanon. But NO ONE was paying any attention. BORRRING!!!! So I decided to go big. SARS, MERS were all SO 2018…….but this new one? This one is my FAVOURITE. Honey you should see me in a crown!” He laughed silently as he enjoyed his own joke.

“And just as I was about to unleash a global pandemic what did I see but your DEAR big brother. Smoking a cigarette, outside the diplomatic mission gardens in Wuhan. He was a sight for sore eyes! I had my boys gather up the stub and extract his DNA. Then I made a special strain JUST for him. I thought maybe that will finally get his attention!”

Sherlock was now clutching the arms of the chair in utter horror.

Jim tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “You know, with all my handsome looks, my sparkling wit, my absolute amazing GENIUS…….I thought brainy was the new sexy…..but he never gave me the time of day. Not ONE date. Not ONE candlelight dinner. No. It wasn’t good enough for him. I wasn’t good enough for him. There was no place in his heart you see because ALL he could think of was YOU!!! All the time. Only YOU.”

Sherlock leaned in on reflex as Jim leaned forward till the screen was filled with his leering face. 

“And you?! You can’t be bothered with HIM. You HATE him. He is SO annoying with his cameras and rules and behaving properly. Isn’t he?! So I thought let me give you this little New Year gift. Are you ENJOYING it? You missed killing him at Sherringford so I thought you might like this opportunity to watch him DIE.” Jim laughed and clapped his hands.

Sherlock felt himself sway as the words sank in.

Moriarty, the insane deranged genius had created a deadly virus that was not only attacking people globally but had also been specially engineered to kill Mycroft?!!

_Because Moriarty was bored? Because Mycroft had rejected his advances?_

_Because he thought killing Mycroft would endear him to Sherlock?_

“So what do you say Sherlock?!” Jim cackled, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s watch him die. And once he is gone there will be nothing LEFT for you on the side of the angels. Then you can come and join me and we will RULE the world as uncrowned kings!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All genuine viral outbreaks from the WHO website!!
> 
> https://www.who.int/csr/don/09-january-2017-plague-mdg/en/  
> https://www.who.int/csr/don/03-june-2016-oropouche-peru/en/  
> https://www.who.int/csr/don/07-august-2018-nipah-virus-india/en/  
> https://www.who.int/csr/don/22-october-2019-measles-lebanon/en/


	8. Chapter 8




	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock’s Mind Palace was whirring away at warp speed, trying to remember everything he knew about Moriarty. What made him tick. What made him happy.

Then he took a deep breath and said “That was brilliant. No one else could have pulled it off. So, did you sell your formula to the highest bidder yet?”

Jim smiled wolfishly. “Nah. Not this time. I don’t want any more money or power or ANY of that stuff you see. I already have more than enough. I wanted HIM. But if I can’t have him then I will take YOU instead.”

Sherlock nodded and asked him calmly “What if I am willing to come to you but only if you can assure me that nothing can stop Mycroft from dying?”

Jim raised both eyebrows in surprise. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you want to be sure that Mycroft WILL die?”

“Yes. No other conditions.” Sherlock said firmly. “But Mycroft MUST die.”

Anthea held her breath.

_What the hell was Sherlock playing at ? What was going to happen now?! Had these two found each other only to be pulled away so cruelly? This was way worse than death do us part!! Would Sherlock really go to Moriarty in exchange? What if ….._

A sharp bell from upstairs interrupted her thoughts and she rushed out to see what Mycroft wanted.

.

.

Jim giggled with excitement. “You sure have a way of surprising me Sherly. I was expecting some chest beating and sharing and caring lark. Ha. I KNEW you would be thrilled to get rid of him!”

“Oh yes of course!” Sherlock said breezily. “But I just want to be absolutely certain. I mean what if I come to you and Mycroft survives somehow? Then he will come after both of us and that would be a terrible pain!”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock…..you REALLY should trust me and my plans!!! It is foolproof!!! The ONLY thing that can save him is YOU. So if you come to me, then there is NO WAY he will survive.”

“What do you mean by that?” Sherlock said with a frown. “How can I save him? I am not a doctor!”

“No you are not. But you ARE the cure! Have you not learnt any genetics?! Something that is engineered for him would have a DNA formula related to you too!”

Sherlock looked thoughtful. “So is it my blood that would cure him?”

Jim laughed and nodded. He rolled his shoulders and grinned at Sherlock. “Not JUST your blood Sherlock. I am not a fool. It is ALL your blood. It will need 5 litres of your blood to cure him.”

.

.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well that’s that then. No way am I giving up my life to save him. So how do I come to you?”

"I will send someone for you tomorrow. Just be ready to leave and they will bring you to me.” Jim rubbed his hands in delight. “Oh it’s going to be SO MUCH fun!!! Laterz!!!”

.

.

The screen went blank and Sherlock sat there in heavy silence.

Anthea came in just then and asked.” What did he say? What is going to happen next? Did he offer a way out?”

Sherlock shook his head. “You know him. He never leaves any loose ends.” 

“Sherlock….”

“For every lock there is a key Anthea. Just trust me.” Sherlock said solemnly. “But I need to think about what can be done. I need to be uninterrupted through the night and I am going to stay in Mycroft's room.”

Anthea opened her mouth to say something but then nodded.

If they had no solution and this might end up being Mycroft’s last night, there was no way she could deny Sherlock this.

One last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to finish writing this part so I am posting it right away but sadly that means the next update will take a few days cos there are weekend workshops and things going on *facepalm*
> 
> Sorry to leave it on this cliff hanger!!


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock sat there with his fingers steepled under his chin.

A scant few hours ago he had promised Mycroft that they would live together and die together and right away fate had offered up this conundrum. Surely the universe had a warped sense of humour.

It all seemed very Biblical with the plague and the apocalypse and the two of them like Cain and Abel. It seems as though one of them had to die so the other could live.

He needed to find a way out.

He needed to save Mycroft of course. That was the first and most important thing.

But if he could possibly stay alive while doing that he was going to try. Not because he prized his own life in any way but now he wanted to live it more than he had for simply years and years. He wanted to live it to be with Mycroft.

He wanted to get their happily ever after.

.

.

So he spent an hour going deeper and deeper into everything he knew about Mycroft right up to what was probably his very first memory.

The moment that he had spoken his first word. ‘My.’

Mummy had been hopeful that it was a sort of mangled Mum-my but Sherlock had made it very clear who he meant by pointing to Mycroft. He remembers Mycroft glowing like a mini sun when he had done that.

He remembers taking his first step. Towards Mycroft.

He remembers the first time he understood that those marks on the papers that took Mycroft’s attention from him were letters that made words and had meaning. The way Mycroft had helped him read the first words. He still remembers that sense of exhilaration at the mysteries of the world around him being solved. Words, codes, patterns……everything that Mycroft had taught him. Unlocked the beauty of the world for him. Always a few steps ahead of him but always guiding his way.

Once again he was struck by how close he had come to never recognizing the unending love that had been his to claim. He shivered at the thought.

He had so many many memories involving Mycroft that were now threatening to overwhelm him with that strange new phenomenon he had barely got used to. Feelings. Emotions.

_So many feelings. Such deep emotions._

He needed to find a way to move faster through the memories that would be helpful in solving this case.

So he started to look only at what he knew about Mycroft’s work and career.

_Was there anyone or anything that could possibly help?_

_Maybe Anthea knew something_ …….. but he could not risk her finding out what his plan was.

It was ironic and horrible that Mycroft who had spent the better part of his life in the Secret Services and despite hating leg work had played dangerous games all over the world, would be taken down like this—frail and ill and in bed.

_No. He was going to make sure that did not happen. Mycroft deserved better. He deserved to live._

Thinking of Mycroft’s dislike of leg work was setting off some memories. The way he had come and rescued him from the prison in Serbia. The absolute shock he had felt when he realized it was not a hallucination and then the thrill that coursed through his body when Mycroft had touched him.

Mycroft had risked his own life so that he could save Sherlock.

_Was there anything he could remember about……oh yes!! There it was!!!_

Sherlock froze as he tried to remember a conversation with Mycroft in the early days of his Secret Service career. It had been after one of the drug den episodes and Mycroft had refused to let him out of his sight and had moved him to his own small flat in London.

Mycroft had mentioned something about his blood test and some blood transfusion protocol.

Sherlock frowned as he tried to recall that memory.

Mycroft had said that the Secret Service elite forces were required to bank their own blood on a regular basis in case they ever needed an urgent transfusion……..and since his blood group was relatively rare, he needed to be even more cautious.

AB positive.

Same as Sherlock’s.

And Sherlock had laughed and said that maybe Mycroft should transfuse all his blood into Sherlock so that he would be purified and become a saint like Mycroft and Mycroft had rolled his eyes.

That was it!!!

That was the solution!

He needed to find where the blood was banked.

If his blood was going to help reverse the effect of the genetically engineered virus then maybe Mycroft’s own would also help.

 _No, that made no sense_. He slapped his forehead. _All this stress was making him stupid!!_

If Mycroft’s own blood would help then his own blood currently inside his own body should be able to fight the infection off !!! No, it had to be Sherlock’s blood.

He had no idea what complicated technology Moriarty had access to but he couldn’t take a chance. He didn’t have time to find the banked blood and experiment. He had barely 12 hours before Moriarty sent someone to get him.

So he had to do this properly. There were no second chances.

He spent ten minutes doing some quick research on the net in case there was anything he had missed in making his plan.

.

.

Then he went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of sweet tea. He would need the glucose. He sat in the office room and wrote a letter to Mycroft. It felt strange to be writing a farewell letter so soon after finding love, but now that he had made up his mind he was feeling strangely detached.

He sealed it and kept it on the desk.

He opened the medical supplies cupboard and found all the things he needed. He cleaned his left hand and after one practise stab managed to insert a cannula into the largest vein he could find. He shut off the flow and taped it down firmly.

Next he went very quietly to double check that Anthea was sleeping and he climbed up the stairs to the bedroom.

He looked at Mycroft lying there, fragile and pale. So much paler than usual, as though that evil virus was chewing down on his red blood cells and destroying them minute by minute. He clenched his jaw and imagined all manner of terrible things that he would have liked to do to Moriarty. But this was probably the best revenge. Moriarty would not get his dirty hands on him and he would not have the satisfaction of watching Mycroft die.

He lay down on his side next to Mycroft, slowly and carefully so as to not disturb him.

He clasped his hand in his left hand and then bound their arms together and very very smoothly slipped a needle into Mycroft’s vein. He made sure that the cannula was taped down at both ends so it would not move. He was aware that at some point he would lose consciousness and he didn’t want the process to stop because his hands went limp.

As his heart pumped the blood out he felt a huge weight roll off his shoulder. He owed his life to Mycroft, so many times over……that it was only right that he should pay it back this way.


	11. Chapter 11

Anthea took a deep breath and sat up in her bed.

She would need to wait for an hour or so if she wanted Sherlock to go ahead and do what she thought he was planning to do.

She had heard the last few sentences of the conversation between Moriarty and Sherlock.

As soon as she heard what Moriarty had said she knew what Sherlock would have started planning, because that was the only way out!

She pretended to not have heard anything when she came in because….well, because she didn’t WANT to stop Sherlock from saving Mycroft. She knew what he meant to the country and to the world. She knew how many wars he had averted and how many people he had saved. Year upon year. Decade upon decade. She knew that the world still needed him.

So, she wanted Sherlock to do what he was planning to do. Of course she did!

But what she was going to do was to make sure Sherlock didn’t die trying to keep Mycroft alive.

.

.

As Sherlock’s heart pumped away and the blood entered Mycroft’s veins, he felt a glowing sense of satisfaction. _This time he was going to be the saviour!_

Of course when Mycroft woke up cured, he would certainly be sad to find Sherlock’s lifeless body next to him, but then he would read the letter and he would know why he had to do it.

There had been no choice.

There would never be a choice when Mycroft’s life was in danger. No matter what the price.

He leaned over and gently moved the oxygen mask away and placed a kiss on Mycroft’s lips. One last kiss. More of a benediction than a lover’s kiss. But then that was who they were. So much more than lovers.

Mycroft was his brother, mentor, best friend, guide, lover, shelter, refuge, saviour.........he was his forever and everything.

Sherlock was starting to feel a bit light headed now and smiled to himself at the thought that soon all of Mycroft’s blood would be replaced by his.

_What better way could there be to merge with your lover? He would be his very heartbeat and the oxygen in his lungs._

Sherlock’s life force would now be one with Mycroft’s.

_What better way to leave this corporeal shell behind? Ashes to ashes…dust to dust….but his blood would be part of a living breathing Mycroft!_

Oh dear, he realized that he had not said anything about the burial or cremation in his letter. He wanted a cremation so that Mycroft could keep his ashes close by. Then they would be tied together with ashes and blood and memories.

He smiled faintly. _That sounded morbid and poetic. Perfect._

He remembered that feeling which swept over him when he had seen Mycroft in the prison that day. Speaking Serbian. Standing there, looking utterly confident and in control. It had given him strength to fight back, using his brain again, to get the guard out of the way.

Mycroft had rescued him from a certain death.

_And now?_

He could feel every red blood cell leaving his body and rippling into Mycroft’s bloodstream.

Like a slow spreading wave of hot lava, he was making his way into his beloved’s entire being. Seeping into every organ.

My, who was his everything, would be living on the oxygen carried by Sherlock’s red blood cells. Their shared blood made literal.

.

.

He smiled at the thought that perhaps if he touched their fingertips together, they would start merging and become one hybrid creature…

But then that would make kissing difficult.

Hmm…… he wanted to be able to keep kissing Mycroft he thought as he started drifting in and out of consciousness.

He knew he was not going to survive this but if he did, he wondered if Mycroft would think it too morbid if, after 120 days, when Mycroft had new red blood cells of his own, purified of the crown virus, that he could also give Sherlock some of his own blood…

It would be even more romantic than exchanging rings….

As he began to drift into unconsciousness, he dreamt of London, of holding hands with his beloved under the umbrella in the rain, playing with their dog in the meadows, both of them wearing shining gold rings….he dreamt of kisses……. sweet, tender kisses, passionate kisses….happily ever after with tea in bed…. reading books by the fireplace… he was going to dance with him, play the violin for him.

He dreamt of warm mornings and cold nights and everything in between.

He could see eternity in the palm of his hand as he lost consciousness with a smile on his face.


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft wasn’t certain how long he’d been asleep when the awareness of the world began to seep into the edges, demanding his attention.

Truthfully, he hadn’t intended to sleep so much at all, but this infection had made him weak. So weak and so frail…. he hadn’t really thought it was possible……and he hated this illness…..but it brought him his beloved.

His beloved Sherlock….what had possessed him to come over that day , out of the blue?! And then somehow the veil had been lifted and he had practically read them their vows and declared ‘till death do us part……’

He still could not believe that this could be real….that he could have this…..the unrequited love and the hopeless yearning of decades suddenly granted to him like a magical wish!

So if he had to do it all over again, he would probably wish for the same, he thought.

He blinked slowly to full wakefulness. He took a deep breath and realized that he was feeling stronger than the earlier day. Much stronger. In fact he could actually feel vitality surging through his veins.

_What a fanciful notion_ he thought wryly. _Sherlock will laugh at me if he finds out what a sappy romantic I really am!_

Then he tried to move his arm and realized that it was bound.

He turned to see why and was shocked to see Sherlock lying next to him, ashen grey and apparently not conscious.

.

.

“Sherlock!!!” He called out in a voice rough with disuse and illness. He was putting out his other hand to call for Anthea when he heard her speak.

“Sir, please don’t move. It’s ok. I am taking care of it.”

He struggled to prop himself up a little to see what was going on. His head started to spin again.

“What…why? What..?” He started to ask, just unable to comprehend what the hell was going on.

Anthea was kneeling on the floor by Sherlock’s side and seemed to be busy pushing some kind of intravenous drip into Sherlock and had put an oxygen mask on him also.

“Did he also..?”

“No Sir.” She replied briskly. “Moriarty is behind all this and the only way to save you was by transfusing you with Sherlock’s blood.”

“Oh…Ok.” Mycroft said with a frown. “But then why aren’t the doctors here doing it?! Why is he looking like this? I don’t understand…..”

“It’s Moriarty Sir. You didn’t need just a blood transfusion. You needed to have 5 liters of Sherlock’s blood.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened. “But that’s …that’s almost all of it!!”

“Exactly. Which is why he didn’t go to the doctor but did it himself. He saved you Sir and now I am going to save him. Don’t worry.” Anthea calmly.

.

.

.

Mycroft lay back dazed and shaken.

_Moriarty?!! How many times was he going to be resurrected?! Would he never leave them alone?_

A chill went down his spine. _If Moriarty ever found out the change in their relationship, Sherlock would be in endless danger. He had to stop him now. For good._

He turned to look at his beloved Sherlock and a tear rolled off down his cheek.

_Please come back to me Sherlock_ he prayed in his mind _. Please. Don’t make me live without you. I will not be able to do it. Not for Queen and country. Not for our parents. Not for any power on this planet. Please Sherlock. Please! Don’t save me and then die in front of my very eyes, next to me. I will not draw one more breath in a world where you do not exist. It will all have been for nothing. Please Sherlock…I am begging you…._

He watched the slow flow of blood through the cannula connecting them. Sherlock’s blood. Entering his veins. Circulating through his body, being pumped around from his heart.

“We be of one blood, you and I” he whispered, quoting from Sherlock’s childhood favourite Jungle Book.

He smiled faintly at the thought that they had not gone beyond a few gentle kisses even but here they were—declared soulmates and not only shared their damaged hearts and genius minds and now literally their blood!

Just then Sherlock stirred and mumbled.

Anthea pulled off his oxygen mask and held up a sip of water for him. He drank it and then opened his eyes. Mycroft watched with bated breath as Sherlock blinked and looked around. Suddenly his face went into a spasm of panic.

“No!!!” He called out, clawing at his mask. “Save Mycroft! Anthea!! What have you done??!!! Stop!!”

“Hush dear, I am here! You did it! You saved me!” Mycroft said as he tried to soothe him.

“No, NO Mycroft it has to be ALL of my blood….” Sherlock said frantically trying to pull away from Anthea.

“Sherlock stop!” Anthea said sharply. “You did it! You gave him all your blood! It’s done. He is safe. I am transfusing you with Mr. Holmes’s banked blood now. Stop moving!”

Sherlock blinked at her and as he understood her words he fell back on the pillow with a deep sigh of relief, his hand gripping Mycroft’s.

.

.

When Sherlock woke again, the sun was slowly pulling itself over the horizon.

Mycroft was sleeping on his side, facing him and had obviously been keeping vigil over him through the past few hours.

They were both pale and drawn, pushed beyond their limits of exhaustion and too tired to even smile at the sight of the other one, alive, and present. But their eyes spoke volumes and their hands were still clasped in each other’s although the cannula had been closed off.

“Dearest.” Mycroft said softly, caressing Sherlock’s palm with his thumb.

Sherlock blinked slowly. _It was done! He had saved Mycroft. He had been willing to die trying to save him and that would have been fine. But this? This was so much better! To have saved Mycroft AND to have survived to have their happily ever after. This was heaven._

He saw the promise in Mycroft’s eyes. They would find a way to deal with Moriarty. They had to. For good this time.

There was also the small matter of a global pandemic.

But for now the world could wait.

For now nothing mattered but the two of them.

Together.

Forever.

Till death do them part.

Uncrowned Kings in their Kingdom of Love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who read and extra thanks to those who left kudos and comments :) Hope that you are all safe and well and stay that way till we ride this pandemic out, cos there ain't no Mycroft or Anthea to fight the crown virus for us!
> 
> Medical note: This is not medically accurate but artistic license has been taken for the sake of the fic! Yes Sherlock and Anthea should be assumed to have been wearing masks the whole time!! Autologous transfusion is real of course and so is direct transfusion. Since Mycroft hasn’t lost any blood, if he gets all 5 litres of Sherlock’s blood his heart will be overloaded! But the story is more about being willing to die for love and not whether you can actually cannulate one’s own artery/vein and how to give diuretics and also the use of blood replacements for Sherlock :P
> 
> Here are reference links for those who are interested!
> 
> https://academic.oup.com/bjaed/article/6/5/192/337094  
> https://www.businessinsider.com/us-special-operations-forces-deploying-with-freeze-dried-blood-plasma-2017-11?IR=T  
> https://www.livemint.com/Politics/BlxvbpdgicM3IhAcUvazEM/Direct-donorpatient-blood-transfusion-to-be-legalized.html  
> https://www.researchgate.net/publication/6953905_Fresh_Whole_Blood_Transfusion_A_Controversial_Military_Practice

**Author's Note:**

> Yes yes....I do have a couple of other WIPs but ...this idea emerged and asked to be written first and who can deny the muse?!!
> 
> 1\. The Adventure of the Speckled Band is one of the 56 short stories written by ACD and is one of the four that qualifies as a true locked room mystery. The ‘murder weapon’ is a snake, supposedly from India.
> 
> 2\. Bouddica was a queen of the British Celtic Iceni tribe who led an uprising against the occupying forces of the Roman Empire in AD 60 or 61


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